The Making of a Lady
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: (Chapter Nine Up!) In a cross between My Fair Lady and Moulin Rouge, Christian Higgins, a well-to-do English professor, attempts to turn an ill-mannered streetwalker into a proper lady.
1. All I Want

The Making of a Lady  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing from Moulin Rouge or My Fair Lady belongs to me. I don't own characters, places, or songs. If I did, I'd probably be out shopping with my boatload of money rather than writing fanfics... Note: Some lyrics have been slightly changed to fit the story.  
  
Author's Note: An idea occurred to me one night at around 1 o'clock in the morning while I was watching My Fair Lady. Why not make a modern day Moulin Rouge version of it? So that's exactly what I've done. And I don't even think there'll be a Duke, but you never know. Hope you like it!  
  
***  
  
Chapter One: All I Want  
  
Satine Campbell groaned as the alarm in her tiny one-room apartment went off with a harsh buzz. She slammed her fist on it as she rolled out of bed and stumbled towards the even tinier bathroom. The water in the shower was cold, as usual, since her heating bill hadn't been paid in almost a year. But she was used to it by now.  
  
Her long, curly red hair dripped water onto the tile floor as she put on her makeup- eyeshadow, mascara, blush, and a thick layer of red lipstick. She quickly dressed in front of the mirror, putting on her black bra and panties, gartered stockings, a low-cut glittering red shirt, and a black miniskirt.  
  
After drying and styling her hair into perfect coils, she slipped into her thigh-high boots and hurried out the door. Time to go to work.  
  
Her 'cubicle' was on the corner of 5th and Main. It even had a streetlight for her to lean against when business got slow. She waved to the other girls she passed, and her friends smiled in recognition. Satine was pretty much the star of the street. Her regulars called her a sparkling diamond because she always wore something that glittered.   
  
She didn't mind, in fact, she enjoyed the nickname and her star status. She'd even had her favorite black beret fixed so that there were little rhinestones on it that spelled out 'Diamond.' It was her trademark now.  
  
She adjusted the beret so that it perched just perfectly atop her curls. "Hey baby doll," she called to one of the girls in her heavy New York accent. "Got a smoke?"  
  
Angie nodded and pulled a pack out of the top of one of her boots, along with a lighter. "Sure, Diamond. Here ya go."  
  
Satine lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke a second later in a thin tendril that weaved through the night air. "Thanks, hon."  
  
She took up her post, leaning against the streetlight as the sun began to set behind the skyscrapers of New York City. She was now open for business. After a few more drags on her cigarette, she tossed it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of her boot. After all, some of the boys didn't like a girl that smoked on the job.  
  
Satine was twenty-seven years old, and she'd been working the streets for eight years now, longer than most of the girls she knew. Of course, she'd never been in love, not even before she became a prostitute. She'd never seen how love could benefit anyone. Someone was always cheating on someone else. She of all people should know that. Many a man had lain in her arms and told her about their wives. She was an escape for men, a way to make love once again without the commitment and baggage of love itself.  
  
Anymore, she hardly thought about love. She just spread her legs, moaned a few times to make it look like she was enjoying herself, took her money, and avoided the cops. It wasn't much of a living, but it was a living all the same. But even still, sometimes at night she wondered if there was more than this...  
  
The wind rippled playfully through her hair, and she closed her eyes for a moment. "One day I'll fly away... leave all this to yesterday." The words seemed to come from out of nowhere, surprising her with their sadness. Why would she want to fly away? There was nothing out there for her. She was a prostitute, she couldn't just go about changing her life. That fake crap only happened in movies like Pretty Woman. This was real life, and she'd better get used to it.  
  
Business was slow tonight. She got a few whistles from passing cars, a few kids barely out of their teens stopped to ogle at her, and a well-dressed old man paused to chat, but there were no propositions, no stepping into an unfamiliar car to go to yet another room.  
  
The night drug on. One by one as the clock on the corner approached three a.m., the girls began to make their way over to her corner. Morgan, a black girl, gave her a high five. "S'tine, what's up girl?"  
  
She smiled. "Not much. Slow night, eh?"  
  
"Yeh, very slow, especially since our precious Diamond hasn't gotten swept away yet," agreed Nini as she leaned haughtily against the wall. Just as Satine was the star of the streets, Nini was the bitch. Her black eyes glinted wickedly as she glanced at Satine. "Guess some lug won't get his money's worth tonight with ya, eh sweetie?"  
  
"Fuck off, Nini," called one of the younger girls, Annie. "Get yer own corner to sulk. Just cause you haven't had a decent offer in a week doesn't mean..."  
  
"Fuck yourself, doll," retorted the hooker. " 'Sides, that's all you can do. You haven't even HAD an offer, cept for what Harmony's passed off on ya. Why don't cha go on back home to mommy. Ya can't make it here."  
  
The girls all fell silent as Nini gloated triumphantly, her arms crossed over her chest. After a moment, Angie spoke up. "Sing for us, Satine." She was echoed by a chorus of agreement from the rest of the girls, excepting Nini. Satine, though she denied it, had the voice of an angel... an angel of the underworld.  
  
Normally, she would have refused, but she noticed Annie sniffling in the back of the group. The poor thing still wasn't used to being out on her own. They all knew her story- she'd run away from home a few months ago and had fallen into the trap of prostitution with no hope of getting out. "Fine," Satine agreed. She cleared her throat and tried to come up with a song. The winter wind blew around them, and the scantily clad girls shivered.   
  
With a grin, Satine began. "All I want is a room somewhere, far away from the cold night air... and one enormous chair and wouldn't it be loverly?" She twirled around on one foot, her red hair whirling around her. "Lots of choc'late for me to eat. Lots of coal makin' lots of heat." She stopped in front of Anne and wrapped her hands around the girl's shivering fingers. "Warm face, warm hands, warm feet and wouldn't it be loverly?"  
  
Anne nodded enthusiastically. Satine laughed, took her by the hands and began dancing around the streetcorner with her. "Oh so loverly sitting absolutely still. I would never budge till spring crept over the windowsill!" She bumped into someone and turned abruptly to find a gawking potential customer. Dropping Anne's hands, she pressed herself against the man, purring her song. "Someone's head restin' on my knee, warm and tender as he can be." She took his tie and pulled him down so that they were face to face. "Who doesn't just want to screw me!" She gave a push and turned away from him to where the girls were watching, declaring, "And wouldn't it be loverly!"  
  
Nini rolled her eyes. "She's gon' crazy." She slinked her way over to the man who was still standing in shock from being sung to by a prostitute. "Com'on, love, I'll take good care of ya."   
  
The rest hardly noticed or cared to as Nini went off with her prize of the night. They had joined Satine in singing. The Diamond herself finished the song as she stepped up onto the bottom of the streetlight so that she was head and shoulders above the rest. "And wouldn't it... be loverly?"  
  
"Loverly," Anne sang back.  
  
"Loverly..." Her voice trailed off as her long-forgotten dreams resurfaced for that moment. She stared out into the night. "One day, I'll fly away..." Beneath her, the girls began to disperse, either going back to try their corners once more or heading home for the night. Satine sank down wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. "Fly, fly... away."  
  
END CHAPTER ONE 


	2. Speaking English

Chapter Two: Speaking English  
  
Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I know Christian is terribly OOC, but after all, he's a cross between our lovable Chris and the stuffy Professor Higgins. Of course, some of you wanted him grumpy, so this is right up your alley... I personally find him adorable.  
  
***  
  
"Professa?"  
  
Christian Higgins gave a heavy sigh as he turned in his chair to regard the student addressing him. "It is ProfessOR, Charity. Haven't you learned better than to go around dropping "r's?"  
  
"Yes, Professor, sorry sir."  
  
"What can I do for you today?"  
  
"It's about my grade, Professa... I mean, Professor."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"I don't think it's right."  
  
He flipped open the gradebook that lay on his desk. Charity Stevens... an F. "Well, Charity, I do believe that it is the correct grade, but I agree with you on the subject that it should not be an F."  
  
"So you'll change it?"  
  
A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. "No, that is not what I said. I meant that you should not have failed English. You should have worked harder and then you would have received a higher grade percentile."  
  
Tears welled up in the young girl's eyes. "But Professa! I can't fail English! What's up with that? My mom'll kill me! Be serious, man."  
  
"I am... 'being serious.' You deserve the grade you received."  
  
The girl glared at him before storming out of his office. "This is crap."  
  
A moment later, Henri Pickerding, the French professor, hobbled into his office. "What was that all about, old friend?"  
  
"Crap, from what I've been told."  
  
The elder professor smiled at his friend over his spectacles. "Kids these days, eh?"  
  
Christian stood up from his desk. "Let me ask you something, Henri. Why can't children today speak correctly? They have no respect for elders, no manners, and no proper English!"  
  
"Don't ask me, Chris. And I doubt anyone else would know the answer, either."  
  
He began to straighten up his desk, muttering to himself. "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?" Christian was twenty-six years old and had been a professor at Montmartre University for three years. He had graduated very early from college, as he had skipped grades in grade school, high school, and college. Throughout his entire life he had been focused on one thing- education. Some would say that he never had a childhood. He would say that he hadn't wanted one.  
  
Now, during his third year of teaching students only a few years his minor, he was lacking in only one area of his life. He had never been in love. Love was what had first drawn him to the English language. There were so many words for expressing love and its many emotions. Poetry was his favorite pastime- both reading and writing it. He had written songs about love, each with perfect language and grammar of course. He knew that once he was established as a master of the English language, he would be able to find a love to express himself to.  
  
But he had come across a problem. He had certainly mastered English as well as several other languages. However, now that he was so skilled in language arts, he could find no woman worthy of his perfect speech. No female, no matter how drab or delightful, was compatible with him! He had risen head and shoulders above all of them!  
  
It was certainly a problem, but he was certain a solution would present itself in one form or another. His eyes pored over the English term papers his students wrote in search of a worthy mate, a girl who could write with a perfect handle on the English language. But three years had gone by and he had been utterly disappointed in his search.  
  
Henri interrupted his thoughts. "We must hurry, Chris, or we'll be late."  
  
"Late?" He racked his brain, trying to remember what he had obviously forgotten.  
  
"I made a reservation for us at Zidler's, remember? We have forty-five minutes to get there."  
  
"Oh God, Henri, I remember now... I'm so sorry." The two friends had a weekly dinner date during which they discussed subjects such as politics, the arts, and of course, language. Henri's favorite place to dine was a stylish, over-priced French diner on the other side of town. Christian slipped into his suit jacket, put on his hat, and grabbed his suitcase. "Would you like to take your car or mine?"  
  
"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to drive? My leg is bothering me today."  
  
Christian nodded without comment. They didn't discuss his injury. The Frenchman had broken his leg in a car accident that had killed his wife, and neither he nor his leg had ever fully recovered.   
  
Shortly thereafter, the two were driving through the city, heading towards the restaurant. Their course always took them through the seedier parts of town, and Christian subconsciously picked up speed, trying to hurry through the area, ignoring the lewd remarks thrown at the two from the prostitutes on the street.  
  
So concentrated was he on ignoring the creatures of the night that he didn't notice as a particularly stunning redhead began to make her way out into the street until it was almost too late. "Christian!" cried Henri, grabbing his friend's arm. Christian slammed his foot on the brake and his hand on the horn as he tried desperately to avoid hitting the woman.  
  
Startled out of her reverie, the girl stared at the oncoming car for a split-second before leaping into action. She almost threw herself back onto the sidewalk, arriving in one piece. But the wind had taken her beloved beret into the street, and she watched in horror as the black car skidded to a stop over it.  
  
"My hat!" she screamed, coloring in anger. She got to her feet, striding towards the stopped car as Christian climbed out. Before he could open his mouth to address her, she laid into him, her accent becoming thicker more apparent by the second. "Wha' do ya think you're doin' huh? Ya try to run a po' workin' girl over, and then you ruin my hat!"  
  
Confused, Christian could only repeat her. "Your hat?" She was positively gorgeous, though her use of the English language caused him to visibly wince. Her cheeks currently matched her bright tendrils of hair, contrasting sharply with her porcelain paleness. He couldn't help but notice her full breasts as they rose and fell with each angry breath.  
  
She bent over, displaying a good deal of skin to the bewildered professor, and picked up her soiled beret. She waved it in front of him. "These things cost money, ya know! Money I ain't got!" She glared at him, her eyes flashing. "But look at you, all dressed up fancy! I bet you got yourself some money, don't cha? I bet ya think it's fun to go around ruinin' the lives of those lesser than ya, don't cha?"  
  
Now angry himself, Christian snatched the beret from her hand. The rhinestones on it spelled out 'Diamond.' Some diamond. "See here!" he demanded. No one would treat him as she had, beautiful or otherwise. "None of this would have happened at all if you would have paid attention to where you were going. I beg your pardon for the accident, ma'am, but I assure you the fault was not mine." The woman took a step back, staring at him. "Now, I'm sure your hat is not ruined. Once it's washed, I'm positive it will be as good as new."  
  
"Ah." She swallowed hard as she took her beret back, clutching it protectively. "No harm done then, eh mistah?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"See ya 'round, babe." She blew him a kiss, then strode past the car, her hips swaying seductively from beneath her tight skirt. He watched her go for a moment, long enough to hear her mutter, "Bast'rd," when she thought he wasn't listening, then he climbed back into his car.  
  
Henry glanced at him. "That was an interesting encounter."  
  
Christian hardly heard him. He was still watching the prostitute. "Look at her, a prisoner of the gutter, condemned by every syllable she ever uttered." He snorted. "By law she should be taken out and hung, for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue! This is what the American population calls an elementary education!"  
  
Henry shook his head. "Now Christian..."  
  
"Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? This verbal class distinction, by now, should be antique! If you spoke as she does, friend, instead of the way you do, why you might be walking streets too!" He started the car, but did not end his singsong complaint. "It's her words that keep her in her place, not her tight clothes and suggestive phrase. Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? One common language I'm afraid we'll never get. Oh, why can't the English learn to set a good example to people whose English is painful to your ears? The Scotch and Irish leave you close to tears. There are even places where English completely disappears! Like here in America, where we haven't used it for years!"  
  
They pulled up in front of the restaurant, and the two climbed out. As they approached the door, Christian seemed to ask everyone waiting outside, "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks have taught their Greek. In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed." The French never care what they do, actually," he added as a side note, "as long as they pronounce it properly. Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning. And Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening. But use proper English and you're regarded as a freak! Why can't the English..." His voiced raised in volume as the question agitated him more and more. "Why can't the English learn to speak?"  
  
The waitress stared at him, wondering if she had a crazy on her hands. Henri tried to hide his smile behind his menu, and an embarrassed blush began to spread over Christian's face. The waitress cleared her throat, her pencil paused over her order pad. "I don't know, monsieur, but could I take your order?"  
  
END CHAPTER TWO 


	3. The Diamond Sparkles

Chapter Three: The Diamond Sparkles  
  
Author's Note: I lied. I said there would be no Duke. But alas, the Duke appears! *Gasp* Actually, he's not all that bad... don't hate him... eh, go ahead and hate him if you really want to. It's a free country, ain't it?  
  
***  
  
As the clock struck four a.m., Satine Campbell decided to finally head home. She'd get no business tonight. Her soiled hat hung from one hand as she sauntered down the streets of New York. The only souls she passed were the homeless drunks that littered the streets, begging passerbys for handouts and money. But they were all asleep now. Asleep and dreaming, perhaps, of beautiful women to love.  
  
"The French are glad to die for love..." The words came in a near-whisper from her crimson lips, but seemed to fill the streets with their sultry passion. "They delight in fighting duels. But I prefer a man who lives... and gives expensive..." She paused as she glanced up and down a street for approaching traffic, then ran across and leapt lightly up onto the curb, finishing her phrase as she struck a dramatic, Marilyn-esque pose. "Jewels."  
  
With a sigh, she continued on. She should be in showbiz, really she should... she had the body, the voice, and the determination. After eight years on the street, she'd better have determination, dammit.   
  
But showbiz was for high-class people. People who didn't live off the streets. People who looked good in elegant gowns and expensive jewelry. People who didn't have to screw someone to make a living.  
  
Satine was not one of those people, to put it simply. Sure, she could charm her way into anyone's bed, but after the night was over, her charm had vanished and all that was left was a bad-tempered redhead.   
  
She spun her way down the street, dancing to the music in her head. In her mind, she was in front of a massive crowd, watching her perform on Broadway. "Men grow cold as girls grow old, and we all lose our charms in the end. But square-cut or pear-shaped these rocks don't lose their shape! Diamonds are a girl's best..."  
  
Turning a corner, she ran abruptly into a young man making his way along the streets. They both stumbled back and she fell, quite ungracefully, onto the grimy streets. She gasped as she hit the ground, bringing on a short fit of coughing. She'd had the damn cough for a week now, but hadn't had any money to buy medicine or go to a doctor. Actually, she'd sworn off doctors when she'd first entered her 'profession,' figuring she'd rather not know what shit she was picking up from her customers.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
The man she'd bumped into was looking down at her, concern scrawled across his youthful face. God, he was cute, she thought to herself. (a/n: Yes, the Duke is cute in this story.) He held out a hand to her, and she pulled herself back to her feet with his help.  
  
She smiled, fluffing her hair with a hand. "Fine, thanks. It's these silly heels..."  
  
He smiled, nearly flooring her. She may be just a hooker, but she still had hormones. And right now, they were raging. "I'm Frederick Duke. Call me Freddy."  
  
"Freddy," she breathed sensuously. "What a... pleasure to meet you." They were still holding hands, even though she was far from the possibility of falling again.  
  
"And what can I call you?"  
  
She raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow suggestively. "You, babe, can call me whatever you want." Breaking contact, she turned away, sauntering down the street. "My friends call me Satine."  
  
He followed her, hurrying to catch up with her quick pace. "What does it take to be your friend?"  
  
She turned abruptly, pressing against him. "You can start by buying me a drink, then we'll see where it goes."  
  
***  
  
After an hour flirting shamelessly in a seedy bar, they were both drunk enough to take the next step with no remorse. Not that Satine would have had remorse, but after about five drinks, Freddy didn't think twice before jumping into bed, even with the fee attached to the privilege.  
  
He wasn't her usual type of patron. His kisses were almost sincere... almost. It was like he was used to making love to women who actually mattered to him, but he had to keep reminding himself that Satine was not one of those women.  
  
Still, he was good, she couldn't deny that. He had looks and talent- you didn't get that very often on the streets. It was like splurging on an ice cream sundae after eating the low-fat crap for weeks.  
  
She lay in his embrace after hours of making love in the cheap hotel room. He was asleep, his blonde hair falling gently across his forehead and his arm across her chest. But she couldn't sleep. Never, in all her years of being a prostitute, had she gotten used to falling asleep in a strange place and waking up alone. It was the one part that she hated.  
  
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven, the sun had begun to peek through the drawn shades over the windows. She'd better get home. Slipping out from under his arm, she reached for her clothing. It had been scattered across the room, as they had begun undressing each other the moment they'd stepped into the room.  
  
Before leaving the room, she stuck the money he'd laid on the dresser, her pay, into her bra, then picked up her beret and headed out the door. "So long, Freddy," she whispered as she closed the door. At least this time, she wouldn't be the one waking up alone.  
  
As she walked down the hall, she quietly sang, "All I want is to fly, fly... away."  
  
END CHAPTER THREE 


	4. It Always Ends Bad, Apparently

Chapter Four: It Always Ends Bad, Apparently  
  
Author's Note: For all the lovers of shirtless Argentineans out there, especially Storm, I bring you this chapter. He's not shirtless, but you can imagine, right?  
  
***  
  
The next day was a Saturday, the most blissful of days where Christian wasn't assaulted by the street-slang of his students. He normally spent his weekends in happy solitude, reading from his novel-of-the-week. Right now, it was A Tale of Two Cities, his second time through the book. He had just reached Lucie and Charles Darnay's wedding, when he put the book down.  
  
Love... everyone had love, it seemed, or at least had been in love at one time in their life. Everyone but him. What was it that so alienated him from women? Was it just his high standards, or was there something about him personally... his looks, his manners... something... He'd hardly had a date in the past two years.  
  
There was a knock at his door. "Enter!" he called, slipping a bookmark into the faded volume and standing to greet his visitor.  
  
The door breezed open and his friend Paul Martinez breezed in with it. Paul was another professor at the college, specializing in the Spanish language. He had just returned from a vacation in Argentina that morning, Christian remembered. "Buenos dias, amigo!" he growled in his accented Spanish.  
  
"Good morning, Paul. How was your trip? Pleasant, I hope."  
  
"Pleasant? Lighten up, old buddy. It was bien! Muah!" His kissed his fingers in a gesture of someone sampling a fine cuisine. He glanced at Christian. "What's wrong with you? You look like you've got a bug up your ass."  
  
"It's nothing, really..." He turned away, pretending to observe one of his French paintings that hung on the wall. It was a Toulouse-Lautrec, one of his favorite painters. "This may sound strange, Paul, but is there something... unattractive about me?"  
  
An explosive laugh came from his friend's mouth. "I don't swing that way, and you know it, Chris!"  
  
"You know what I meant."  
  
Paul sobered. "Sorry, friend." He paused, looking Christian over. "If I must say so, Chris, you're almost as handsome as I am."  
  
The English professor turned, a frown on his face. "Paul..."  
  
"I'm being serious, here. Girls should be falling all over themselves for you." Christian didn't even have to voice his question, Paul did it for him. "But you want to know why they aren't, no? I can't answer that. But I can tell you that you're lucky they don't."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Love, my friend, always ends badly."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
He shook his head, flopping down into a chair. "After all, Chris, I'm an ordinary man, who desires nothing more than an ordinary chance to live exactly as he likes and do precisely what he wants. An average man am I, of no eccentric wish, who likes to live his life free of strife, doing what ever he thinks is best... for him." He stood up abruptly. "But! Let a woman in your life and your serenity is through, she'll redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome, and then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you! Let a woman in your life and you're up against a wall. Make a plan and you will find that she has something else in mind, and so rather than do either you do something else that neither likes at all!"  
  
Christian's forehead wrinkled in thought. He knew that Paul had been through his share of bad lovers and live-ins, but surely... "It can't be all that bad, can it?"  
  
"That's where you're wrong, mi amigo," he corrected, pacing back and forth across the floor. "If you want to talk of Spain and Panama, she only wants to talk of love. You go to see a play or concert and spend it searching for her purse. Let a woman in your life and you invite eternal strife! Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands... I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling... then to ever let a woman in my life!"  
  
"I see," murmured Christian. "So I would do better to be without love than to go through all that you speak of?"  
  
"In layman's' terms, Chris, screwing a woman only means screwing with your entire life. It's not worth it. Look but don't touch, you know what I mean?"  
  
"Exactly." After all, it was what he'd been doing his whole life, though that wasn't really his decision...  
  
Paul glanced at his watch. "Well, it's been good talking to you, but I have to run. I'm meeting this hot piece of work for lunch, and if I'm lucky, I can be buying her breakfast, if you know what I mean..."  
  
He could only smile. Paul was too much of a ladies' man to ever take his own advice about women. In under a week, Christian would be hearing about the evils of the fairer sex once again. "Have fun, Paul."  
  
His friend winked at him over his shoulder. "You know I will."   
  
The door shut behind him, leaving Chris back where he was in the first place. "Some advice," he muttered to himself, going back to his Dickens. But he couldn't concentrate on the words. There was something mulling around in the back of his brain.  
  
He considered his problem thus far. What he wanted... needed... was a woman with a perfect grasp on the English language. But as of yet, he had not been able to find someone who met those requirements. They had all fallen despairingly short. Was it possible to find such a woman?  
  
After pondering the question for several more minutes, he came to his solution. What he needed was a project to determine the capabilities of the female mind. He would take someone totally untrained in the art and wonder of the English language and attempt to turn her into a stunning mistress of language itself, enough to pass her off as an English aficionado among the greatest professors of English. Then, then he would have a driving force behind his pursuit of a mate, some hope that he could find a woman completely devoted to English, as he was.  
  
A smile crossed his face, lighting up his blue eyes. It was the perfect plan, flawless in all aspects. All he had to do was to find this woman, this pitiful creature to transform in the course of his project. And he had the perfect person in mind.  
  
END CHAPTER FOUR 


	5. The Proposition

Chapter Five: The Proposition  
  
Author's Note: My muse is being obstinate. Someone must have stolen her M&Ms... *glares accusingly around her*  
  
***  
  
What he needed was a creature so simple, so delightfully low... and who was lower than a common streetwalker? He had the perfect one in mind, his charming little redhead from the previous night's encounter.  
  
As the sun began to set, he climbed into his car, his plan taking shape as he drove. He would be required to teach her everything- manners, etiquette, and language. It would be a delightfully heavy chore, one that would surely take at least a month. A month... a month would have her prepared for the annual New York English Professors Conference. He would take her there and present her as a greatly acclaimed professor of English that he himself had discovered.   
  
If she passed the test, he would know that there was the possibility of the existence of a well-spoken young woman in this world, and all he had to do was find her. It was a flawless plan, providing that he could convince the young hooker to go along with it.  
  
He felt odd driving slowly along the seedy streets, glancing out his windows at the barely dressed women leaning against streetlamps. It was a sensation that made his skin crawl in a way that was not at all appealing. Finally, he came to the corner where he believed he had almost hit the girl he was looking for. He paused, surveying the scene, but saw no sight of her.   
  
A hooker caught sight of him, however, and sauntered over. She leaned down to window-level and Christian had to make a conscious effort to maintain eye contact with her. "Hey babe, lookin' for some fun?"  
  
"Act-actually, I was looking for a specific person..."  
  
"Oh... well, then. What's she look like?"  
  
"She... she..." he swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "She has r-red hair and has, well, had a beret with these rhinestones on it."  
  
The woman straightened. "Easy, Shakespeare, no need to stutter over the slut. You'll find your Satine if you go down one more block and turn right. You'll know 'er when ya see 'er."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She had already turned away with a flip of her dark hair. "Don't mention it."  
  
He followed her directions, and sure enough, spotted the girl conversing with a young man whose eyes were fixated somewhere south of her face. Hurriedly, he parked his car and climbed out, jogging quickly across the street. He didn't know what he was going to do, or say... he just kept making his way towards her.  
  
He cleared his throat as he approached her. She was even more beautiful tonight, it seemed. The black spaghetti-strap tank she wore set off her pale skin in a startling contrast, and fishnet stockings clad the long, lithe legs that curved down from under her black mini-skirt. "Excuse me, miss. I need to talk to you."  
  
She eyed him warily. This wasn't a cop was it? Damn her if it was- there was no way she could run in the heels she was wearing. "Whadda ya want?"  
  
"I just want to talk to you a moment."  
  
The man who had been staring at the hooker's chest glanced around nervously before backing quickly away from them. She turned to Christian, her eyes wide. "Look, I ain't done nothin' wrong, here, mistah. You can't prove I did anything, got it? An' I didn't do anything. I'm a good girl, I am."  
  
Confused, he stared at her a moment before realizing what she thought was going on. "No, no... I'm not an officer."  
  
She visibly relaxed, pulling a cigarette out of... somewhere, he wasn't sure where. "Got a light, mistah?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "What are ya, thick? A light, ya know, for my cig. If we're gonna... talk... I'd like a smoke."  
  
"Oh, yes... of course." He fumbled around for his lighter before drawing it out of his pocket and flicking it on. She leaned over the tiny flame, inhaling deeply.  
  
"Much betta." She leaned casually against the wall of the building behind her, smoke wreathing her red hair like some sacrilegious halo. "Now, whadda ya wanna talk about?"  
  
He approached her slowly. "I have a... proposition for you."  
  
"Oh, fancy words there, mistah. All ya gotta say is ya wanna shack up an' I'll tell ya the price. It ain't difficult."  
  
His eyes widened in shock. "Excuse me, I believe you have the wrong idea. I did not imply a sexual proposition, not in the least!"  
  
She cocked her head, regarding him. "You don't wanna screw me?"  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
Without missing a beat, she asked, "Ya gay?" She adjusted her tank so that more of her cleavage showed.  
  
He kept his eyes focused on her face, though it was an effort. "That is not the reason I do not want to... 'screw you,' miss. I have a... professional offer to make you."  
  
She dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with her heel. "Professional, eh? Whadda ya mean by that?"  
  
"I mean that I wish to take you and make you into a well-spoken lady."  
  
A laugh exploded from her crimson lips. "Listen to ya!" She dropped her voice in a bad imitation of him, "I want to make ya a well-spoken lady, ya hear?" She laughed again.  
  
"I'm not joking. I am an English professor at Montmartre University, and I am conducting a profession study of the English language. The purpose is to see if I can turn a common person such as yourself, who knows absolutely nothing about the beauty of the language she daily butchers, into a well-bred young woman of society within a month."  
  
"First of all, I ain't no common person. I'm high class, I am. Ya gotta pay good money for me, got it? An' second of all, what's in it for me?"  
  
Chris hadn't expected her to take charge of his proposition like she was doing. "For you?"  
  
"Yeh. If I'm understandin' ya right, I'm gonna be out-of-work during your little study. I'm gonna need some money."  
  
"I'll be providing all you need, though. Food, housing..."  
  
"Ya expecting me to sleep with ya during this study?"  
  
Again, he was taken aback. "Absolutely not! This is to be a strictly profession relationship."  
  
She shrugged. "Whateva. But I still need some pay, or I ain't agreeing."  
  
He sighed in submission. "What do you normally... charge... your customers per night?"  
  
"Two hundred."  
  
His mouth dropped, he was sure of it. This woman would drive him to bankruptcy before the month was over! "Look here. I'll make you a deal. Since I will be providing all of your necessary requirements for living and there will be no, and I mean NO sexual favors, I will pay you fifty dollars per night for a month, with will leave you walking away with fifteen hundred dollars at the end of the study. You won't have to pay for any of your food or rent." He paused, letting the offer sink in, then stretched out his hand towards her. "Do we have a deal?"  
  
She smiled broadly. "You betcha!" Her long, thin fingers grasped his hand firmly, shaking vigorously. This guy was a born fool, she decided. He was going to PAY her to live in the lap of luxury. This was gonna be great.  
  
END CHAPTER FIVE 


	6. Deer in the Headlights

Chapter Six: Deer in the Headlights  
  
Author's Note: Sorry this has taken soooo long to get out. My muse was being obstinate. She's been playing favorites and only letting me write Snapey stuff. *sticks tongue out at muse* Not that I mind about the Snape thing, necessarily, but... I would like to finish this eventually.  
  
For Nita, since she was so excited about it.  
  
***  
  
Satine climbed into the passenger seat of the car. "Nice wheels ya got."  
  
"You," he corrected, almost subconsciously.  
  
"What?"  
  
He sighed as she turned he key in the ignition. "The correct way to speak that sentence would be to say 'Nice wheels YOU got.' And that's not even right. The truly correct way would be to say 'Your car is very nice.'"  
  
She stared at him, her painted lips parted slightly. "You're insane, that's what ya are."  
  
Biting his lip to keep from correcting her yet again, he sped off into the night.  
  
***  
  
Though his intentions were far from perverse, he still felt... dirty... as he opened the door to allow Satine in. There was a hooker in his house, he thought silently. That had to be a first. In fact, he was quite sure that having ANY woman in his house was a first.  
  
He watched as she sauntered through the house to the living room, where she sprawled across his couch in such a position that her already-short skirt rose even higher and exposed even more of her legs. "Where do we start?"  
  
"Well..." he averted his eyes, choosing instead to stare out the window. "We start with getting you new clothes first thing in the morning."  
  
She sat up. "What's wrong with my clothes, eh? You got a problem with 'em?"  
  
"Um, well, no, not exactly. But you see, I am supposed to, er, present you to society as a well-bred young woman, and as such, you will need more proper attire."  
  
She crossed her arms obstinately. "Well, I certainly ain't paying for new clothes."  
  
Lord, she did have a one-track mind. "Don't worry, I'll provide the payment."  
  
She shrugged. "Whateva." Glancing around the apartment, she inquired. "So, where do we sleep?"  
  
"We? Er, YOU will sleep in the guest bedroom."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
He frowned at her. "Why do you ask?"  
  
She examined her fingernails, brushing them against the top of her shirt. "In case I..." the hand drifted slightly south, "need something."  
  
Christian was taken by a sudden fit of coughing, and he turned away from her to compose himself. Great Scott, how was he going to live with this woman for the next month? She was atrocious, scandalous, indecent, and ill mannered... he turned back around.  
  
She was also standing approximately two inches away from him.  
  
"Hey there," she breathed, smiling coyly. Her delicate hands ran up the front of his suit jacket before sliding beneath the material to push it off his shoulders. He froze, staring into her seductive green eyes like a deer trapped in the headlights. Well, that is... if deer were commonly seduced by headlights. Which he doubted.  
  
She leaned forward to kiss him, but as her breath tickled his skin, he jerked back to life. "Pardon me, Miss Satine!" He stumbled backwards, landing awkwardly on the couch. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, pulling his jacket more firmly around himself. "I thought I had made it quite clear that there were to be no sexual favors."  
  
She laughed girlishly, seating herself on his lap and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "This ain't a favor, hon. I expect full pay for my... services." She pressed herself against him, her fingers beginning to undo his top button.  
  
On sheer instinct, he abruptly pushed her from his lap onto the ground. "You don't understand..."  
  
She held up a hand, stripping off her tank and revealing the black lace bra she wore beneath it. "No, no, I understand. I've done it on the floor before. Lotsa guys like it like that."  
  
Christian was positive that his jaw dropped, though whether it was from her lack of clothing or from her statement he wasn't quite sure yet. Probably both.  
  
Her face. Focus on her face. "For the last time, I do not want to sleep with you. I mean no... disrespect, of course. This is a purely professional arrangement. There will be none of..." he gestured to her, "that."  
  
Satine shrugged and reached for her tank top. "Then why don't ya show me where I sleep and stop wasting time. A girl need her beauty sleep, ya know."  
  
He swallowed, hard. "Aren't you going to... put that on?"  
  
"I wasn't planning on it."  
  
He blinked. "Oh." Good Lord. He was beginning to regret ever THINKING of this idea. Why couldn't he have just left well enough alone? He didn't need a woman, really. I mean, plenty of men stayed bachelors their entire lives. But nooo, he had to go and come up with this wonderful idea to turn a prostitute into a lady. Riiiight.  
  
He doubted that she'd ever even SEEN a lady.  
  
This was going to be... interesting, for lack of a better word. For... desperate lack of a better word.  
  
One month. Thirty days. It wasn't really that long, was it?  
  
Staring fixedly at his shoes, he led her into the guest bedroom. "I'm Christian Higgins, by the way."  
  
He couldn't see it, but he knew that she was flashing him that coy smile again... the smile that made his knees shake. "Call me whatever ya want, babe."  
  
Thirty days was going to be hell.  
  
END CHAPTER SIX 


	7. Dancing to Elton John

Chapter Seven: Dancing to Elton John  
  
Author's Note: Due to popular demand, here is Chapter Seven. Didn't know the story was so... likable. *shrugs* Whatever floats your boat I suppose. By the way, Serendipity (my muse) is being very stubborn about this story. I don't believe she likes it. Offerings of M&M's (she likes peanut butter the best) to her will be much appreciated. *grin*  
  
Also, thanks to Nita for the slippers inspiration.  
  
***  
  
Satine had thought that she would be living in the lap of luxury. Bull shit. Christian ruled over her life like a dictator, telling her exactly what she could and could not do. The list of 'could-not's' was considerably longer than the 'could's,' she noted with bitterness.  
  
Her life with the professor was nothing like her life previously. She spent nearly all of her time either working on her 'dreadful English,' being lectured on how a proper lady would behave, or reading classic literature. Even mealtimes were no escape, for he continued his lessons in etiquette straight through, scolding her for cutting her meat wrong or for talking with her mouth full. It seemed to her as if she could do nothing right.  
  
The only free time she seemed to have were her nightly showers, an hour that she relished. The bathroom was her sanctuary. Christian didn't dare step foot near the room, as it was littered with feminism. Perfumes and body washes decorated the counters, while a razor lay abandoned in the sink. Discarded bras and panties hung over the shower rod and towel rack, and half-flipped-through Cosmo magazines carpeted the floor.  
  
She laughed at the thought of the proper professor picking his way through the room in search of towel or some other thing. He could barely stand to see her wearing a tank top, much less bear being confronted with half of her undergarments at one time. She often wondered if Christian had ever gotten laid in his life.  
  
She highly doubted it. He was far too up tight to have gotten lucky.  
  
On the fifth day of 'The Project,' Satine stepped out of the bathroom after taking her nightly shower. She wore only her bra and underwear, with a fluffy white robe wrapped around her slim form to keep Christian from scolding. Humming a strain of "Meet You in the Red Room," she sashayed her way down the hall and into the living room, using a towel to dry her fiery curls.  
  
Luckily, the room was unoccupied. Christian must have already shut himself in his room for the night, which was perfectly fine with her. She flipped on the radio, scanning the station until she heard a familiar voice singing.  
  
"It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside, I'm not one of those who can easily hide..." A smile crossed her face and she turned the volume up. Elton John was her guilty pleasure. She knew she'd be the laughing-stock of the streetcorner if word ever got out that she fancied the music of an over-the-hill, bald, gay pianist.  
  
But here, she was safe to listen to him at will. "If I were a sculptor, but then again, no, or a man who makes potion in a traveling show... I know it's not much but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song and this one's for you."  
  
Tossing the towel aside, she began to dance around the empty room, now openly singing along with the words that were close to blaring from the radio. "And you can tell everybody, this is your song. It may be quite simple but, now that it's done, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words... how wonderful life is while you're in the world."  
  
With each movement, her robe loosened a bit until it was hanging quite open, spinning around her as she pretended to waltz around the living room, her still-wet hair tossing drops of water on the floor and furniture. At that moment, Christian entered the room, looking annoyed at the high volume at which Elton John was singing, and about to launch into another lecture about how proper ladies did not blast oldies at ten o'clock at night.  
  
But then he saw her, dancing half-naked and harmonizing with the music in a way that he'd seldom heard. It was... enthralling. He felt his mouth go dry and hands get all clammy. Somehow she had ceased to be the vulgar streetwalker he had been longing to beat with a grammar book for the past five days. She was... beautiful. He wanted to watch her forever.  
  
Unfortunately, at that very moment she happened to notice him and trailed off, mid-refrain, staring back at him. As Elton John continued to belt out his song, all the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, making her seem even more like a porcelain doll. Though few porcelain dolls were... erm, shaped like she was.  
  
Christian cleared his throat, fighting to gain control of his eyes. They seemed to have gotten minds of their own, because his mind *certainly* did not think like that. "I was just..." he thought quickly for the reason he had come down. Right, to yell at her about the music. Right. Of course. Well, let's get yelling. "I was... looking for my slippers."  
  
Good God. His slippers? His SLIPPERS? He wanted to slap himself, anything to stop himself from any more staring and stupid comments. But the staring continued. Honestly. You'd think he'd never seen a woman half-naked in real life. Oh wait, he hadn't.  
  
She flushed as scarlet as her hair as she realized how much her robe was hanging open and gathered it tightly about herself. She bent down to grab his slippers (which happened to be from his mother, which meant that they happened to have cutesy little bunnies on them) angrily. "You want your slippers, eh?" she growled, eye's flashing. "You've got them then." She flung them at him, too embarrassed to even laugh as one bunny slipper bounced off his head, and then she stormed from the room before he could even realize that her English was indeed improving.  
  
***  
  
How dare he? How DARE he?! How dare he stare at her like that, like she was nothing but a piece of meat to be admired and then devoured? How dare he look at her like all the others?  
  
She hadn't liked it... that stare. She had never seen it from him before, and it had made her... uncomfortable. Uncomfortable... ha! She, who had lay naked with countless men with no sense of shame... now she was getting modest.  
  
What the hell had he done to her? Why had she ever agreed to let him have his little experiment, to try to change her? She didn't need to be changed, dammit! She was perfectly fine the way she was!  
  
But then he'd come along with his bloody perfect English and offered her money, and she'd just accepted. Just like that. No consideration, no thought, just 'yes.' Sometimes she was a damn idiot.  
  
And she hated him. HATED HIM.  
  
Pausing in the hall, she glanced back at the room, anger smoldering in her eyes. "Just you wait, Christian Higgins, just you wait!" She stomped her foot childishly. "You'll be sorry, but your tears will be to late! You'll be broke, and I'll have money, will I help you? Don't be funny! Just you wait, Christian Higgins, just you wait!"  
  
She turned on her heel and strode a few feet down the hall before whirling around again. "Just you wait, Christian Higgins, till you're sick, and you scream to fetch a doctor double-quick. I'll be off a second later, and go straight to the theater! You take that, Christian Higgins! Just you wait!"  
  
She stomped down the hall to her room, disappearing inside her room before reappearing a second later to scream down the hall before slamming the door, "Just you wait!"  
  
END CHAPTER SEVEN 


	8. A Little Help, If You Please

Chapter Eight: A Little Help, If You Please  
  
Author's Note: Another long delay between chapters, I'm afraid... but hey, I'm getting it out, what are you complaining about? *grin* At least I've got Nita partially sated by my new Snape/Sinistra fic... (though she DID have the nerve to pull the whole "Goooooooyle" thing... but as for the rest of you... *hides* Don't hurt me.  
  
For those who wanted to know, just leave M&M's in your review... Serendipity will retrieve them on her own... greedy little thing. *grin* She would also like to thank all who have given M&M's... she ate them in about 2.5 seconds. I personally think she should watch out for her figure, the way she goes at them. I mean, really.  
  
Anyway, in this chapter, Paul makes a long-overdue second appearance! And speaking of Argentineans and those who love them... Storm, go watch My Fair Lady! Now! *sweet smile*  
  
***  
  
Several more days passed, though not without Christian receiving his share of pointed glares from the former prostitute, and he had to admit that apart from her still-colorful language, her English was drastically improving.  
  
Which meant that he couldn't resist taking her out for a sort of... trial run, perhaps in one of the classier bars in town. No where incredibly fancy or high-class. Though her improvements had been vast... they weren't quite yet *that* vast.  
  
Now Christian had very little sense as to the local drinking scene... however, he did know someone who did.  
  
Unfortunately, that someone happened to be one of the biggest ladies men on this side of New York City. Which was why he regretted finding himself outside Paul Martinez' apartment the next morning, hesitantly knocking on the door. A few seconds passed, during which high giggles drifted to his cringing ears from the other side of the door. Then came a familiar voice, "Door's open!"  
  
Now, why did that not surprise him?  
  
Grimacing, he turned the knob and stepped inside the darkened apartment. Hmm, now why would it be darkened? Gee, I wonder. "Paul?" he called out, just as a young blonde, in a lessened state of dress, came bursting around the corner. "Pardon me," he gasped, stumbling back.  
  
"Yeah, whatever," she said abruptly, heading out the door while buttoning up her shirt.  
  
Thinking the coast now clear, Christian stuck his head around the corner. "Hey! This ain't a show!" yelled another blonde who looked very similar to the first before ducking into the bathroom. He whirled back around the corner, his eyes tightly closed. He had NOT wanted to see that.  
  
He heard Paul's deep laughter. "Get over here, Chris, old boy." He didn't move. "She's dressed, don't worry." Oh so cautiously, he turned around. "Oh wait, maybe not..." Again, he froze, snapping his eyes shut. "Just kidding." Still, he waited a full five seconds before attempting to re-enter the room.   
  
She was indeed dressed, if that was what you could call it, and was fluffing her slightly mussed blonde curls. Paul himself sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a red robe and smoking a cigarette. She bent to kiss him goodbye. "See ya round, honey."  
  
"I do hope so, Carol."  
  
She pulled back, her hands on her hips, obviously offended. "I'm Sheryl!"  
  
He shrugged, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Sheryl, Carol... you're twins! How am I supposed to tell the difference?" She rolled her eyes and trotted out on towering pink pumps. He looked up at Christian. "Buenos dias, my friend. What brings you around?"  
  
"I wanted to, ah..." his eyes widened as he saw a bra draped across the bed post and gingerly picked it up. A moment later, the first twin... Carol, he thought, came storming back in and snatched it from him before turning on her heel and leaving just as quickly. He blinked several times before turning his attention back to Paul. "I wanted to... ask you something?"  
  
"Ask away."  
  
"Well, you see..." He had decided earlier that it would be... best... that Paul not know that Satine was in fact a hooker. "I'm having a young English professor over for lunch and I would like to take her out somewhere fairly nice..."  
  
Paul's eyes snapped up to fasten with a sparkle on Christian. "Her, eh?" He leapt to his feet and heartily clapped a large hand on Christian's back. "Been hiding the little woman away from me, have you? You sly devil, you."  
  
He shook his head vigorously. "Oh no, there is nothing... romantic, between the professor and I."  
  
The Spaniard arched an eyebrow. "Well then, would you mind if I..."  
  
"Yes." He could see it now, Satine demanding payment for her night with Paul, and the whole thing would go up in smoke. Yes, it was better to tell him not to touch beforehand, than to clean up the mess afterwards.  
  
"Oh." He looked vaguely disappointed. "Well..."  
  
"You can bring a date," Christian added hurriedly. "It's just that you know that I do not know how to 'have fun' as you have put it many times. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be our esteemed guide for the evening."  
  
His friend brightened considerably. "Well, in that case... I'd be delighted!" And he promptly enveloped Christian in a bear hug, planting a huge kiss on his cheek. As realizing in retrospect what he had done, he pulled back, stroking his goatee nervously. "Er... nothing funny, of course. I just like to have fun."  
  
Christian smiled. "Of course. And thank you."  
  
"Don't mention it!" he responded cheerily, grabbing a handful of clothing from his closet and disappearing into the bathroom. "Seven o'clock tonight?"  
  
"That sounds satisfactory. Shall we come here?"  
  
His only response was the sound of running water from the shower. So he shrugged and let himself back out into the hall. Now all he had to do was to cross his fingers and hope that the evening would not turn into a total disaster.  
  
He suddenly had a very childish impulse to say "Fat chance," but instead bit his lip and hurried down the hall.  
  
***  
  
For the third time, he glanced at his watch and tapped his foot. 6:55. It took ten minutes to get to Paul's, in good traffic, which meant that they were already impossibly late. Christian hated being late, almost as much as he hated grammatical errors. He fingered his keys and glanced down the hall. Honestly. Did it really take women as long as he'd heard to get ready?  
  
He was about to call her, for the second time, when he heard the bathroom door open. Well. It was about time.  
  
He opened his mouth to chastise her, but as soon as he saw her, all words failed him.  
  
She was clad in a black, spaghetti strap dress with a deep v-neck that exposed just enough of her chest to not be trashy. The hem fell to just above her knees, but was gathered off to the right side in a cabaret-style ruffle that showed off more of her leg. Her vibrant tresses were done up off her neck in a mass of curls on top of her head with a few well-placed strands falling down to trace the contours of her face.  
  
She bent over slightly to fiddle with the strap of her black heeled sandals, then glanced nervously at him for approval. "How do I look?"  
  
He quickly averted his eyes and glanced down at his watch again. 6:59. "We're late," he said curtly, grabbing his jacket and opening the door. "Let's go."  
  
She frowned after him. "Thanks," she muttered. "You look nice too, bastard." She took her fur-lined coat from the hanger, slid it over her shoulders, and followed after him, letting the door close behind her. Little matter. She was not about to let the damned professor ruin her night out. Not if she had anything to do with it.  
  
And, oh, she would.  
  
END CHAPTER EIGHT 


	9. The Trial Run

Chapter Nine: The Trial Run  
  
Author's Note: For Nita and her 'light encouragement.' I owe it all to The System. *nods* Without it, TMOAL would be... *dramatic* Dead.  
  
***  
  
Christian decided straightaway that he definitely did not like the look on Satine's face as she climbed into the car. But he decided the polite thing to do would be not to say anything about it.  
  
In retrospect, perhaps he should have.  
  
Or, more than that, he should have expected something from her. But her change of appearance threw him. She looked like a lady. Therefore, she should act like a lady. Right?  
  
To put it simply, he had never been more wrong.   
  
He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she smoothed deep red lipstick over her full lips before checking her appearance in the mirror. It was amazing how different she looked without her usual overabundance of makeup. The effect was rather...   
  
He returned his gaze to the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. The road, Christian. Pay attention to the road. Ignore the fact that the thin strap on her left side was beginning to slide off her pale shoulder. Just ignore it. The road was far more important than that. It was also more important than the way that tendril of hair was falling across her sparkling eyes. Much more important, definitely.  
  
"So, where are we going?"  
  
Her voice startled him. "Well, we are stopping by my friend's apartment first to pick up him and his potential date. He will guide us from there."  
  
"To a mystery location, I guess?"  
  
"To a mystery location, you *presume,*" he corrected.  
  
"Whatever," she sighed, brushing absentmindedly at a strand of hair and staring out the window.  
  
"No, Satine. You will learn to speak properly. You do not say 'I guess.' Teenagers, most of whom do not care enough for English to wince as they butcher it, use such words. English professors... and I needn't remind you that you are from this point on an English professor, do not speak in such ways. Your façade will be seen through in mere seconds if you say such a thing at the Conference."  
  
"And I presume," she shot back, overly exaggerating her last word, "that we do not wish for that tremendous horror to occur. Am I correct, Professor?"  
  
He scowled at her mocking smile. "It is not humorous."  
  
Her smile only increased. "It kindof is."  
  
"The last time I checked my Webster's Dictionary, 'kindof' was not a word."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Can't you ever just relax? We're supposed to have fun tonight. And, believe it or not, having you constantly correct everything I say is not my idea of fun. Just an fyi."  
  
He stared at the road for a moment before he dared to ask. "What does 'fyi' mean?"  
  
She burst out laughing. "Are you serious?" A smirk played on her face when she decided that he was indeed serious. "Oh my God... you really don't get out much, do ya? It means 'for your information.'"  
  
"I see." He parked outside the apartment complex and turned off the car, feeling rather... dumb. He had been worried that it would have stood for something... sexual. For once, it hadn't. Surprising. Just when he had gotten use to the blatantly sexual remarks too.  
  
"Are we both going up?"  
  
"That would be the polite thing to do."  
  
"And the ladylike thing, I gu... presume."  
  
"Precisely." He opened his door and got out, bending down a moment later to peer in at her. "Are you coming?"  
  
"I was waiting for the gentleman of our group to assist me as I exit the vehicle," she said, her nose tilted upwards and her voice distinctly nasally and elitist. She was mocking him. Again. He moved to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Then he stepped up on the curb and walked swiftly towards the door to the apartment building, ringing for Paul. She made an angry noise in her throat that he, of course, did not hear, and climbed out of the car, slamming the door closed a bit harder than necessary.   
  
Christian cringed. "Miss Campbell, if you please, attempt not to damage my car."  
  
"Sorry," she snapped back before moving to lean against the side of the building. He frowned at her, and she straightened, cussing under her breath. A moment later, the buzzer rang, signaling that they were now allowed passage upstairs. Christian mounted the stairs inside, Satine trailing behind him.  
  
"Here we are," he announced once they had reached apartment 27C, and he raised his hand to knock on the door. The Spaniard was faster. The door opened before Christian could rap against it, and the both were greeted by the overly enthusiastic professor.  
  
He pulled Christian into a hug, exclaiming, "So good to see you again, mi amigo! You're late, but don't look so stuffy! Appointments are made to be broken. Now come, come, introduce me to this ravishing young woman before she thinks you rude!" He winked at Satine, who smiled coyly back.  
  
"Er, yes, of course. This is Miss Satine Campbell, an English professor at... one of the local colleges. Miss Campbell, this is Paul Martinez, my friend and Spanish professor at the university."  
  
She graciously, as he had taught her, extended her hand to him. He took it, turned it over, and raised it to his lips. After kissing the back of her hand, the edges of his mustache brushing her skin, he raised his eyes to her. "Call me Paul, mi diamante."  
  
She tilted her head in a play at shyness. "Thank you."  
  
"Now, vamos, mis amigos! We must be going! The night is still young!" He bustled out of the room, his suit jacket draped over his shoulders like some imitation of a matador's cape, not bothering to close the door behind him. Christian did so for him with a roll of his eyes and quickly followed the retreating figure.  
  
***  
  
Paul climbed from the backseat of the car fifteen minutes later and opened Satine's door with a flourish, offering his hand to help her up onto the curb. He gestured at the building before them as Christian gave the valet the keys. "The Red Elephant, senorita. One of the finest clubs on this side of New York... at least, out of the ones you can get into without reservations and a black tie."  
  
It was a stunning building. The head of an elephant, as red as blood, protruded from the front of the building, it's elegant tusk curling upwards to connect in the middle of its marble forehead. Ivory tusks descended on either side of the door.  
  
"Goddamn..." she breathed, and Christian began to cough violently at her side.  
  
Paul looked down at her. "Did you say something?"  
  
"Yes," she responded with a wide grin. "I said, 'it's lovely.'"  
  
"It is, isn't it?" He offered his arm to her, and she hooked her hand through the crook of his elbow. "Shall we?"  
  
"Of course." She sauntered into the club on the professor's arm, leaving Christian to walk incredulously behind them. He should have known better than to let Paul and Satine near each other. He really should have.  
  
He frowned as he followed them, disapproving of the swing of her hips beneath her snug dress, of the girlish laughter that bubbled to her lips as Paul said something to her. She shouldn't be acting like that with him. She should know better. Hadn't she listened to a thing he'd drilled into her head the past week and a half? The Conference would be a scandal if she acted like this there.  
  
He could just see it, with Satine in her black mini-skirt and a tube top and propositioning the Head of Department... He shook his head. No. He didn't want to picture it. He didn't need to. He would be living it in a little under three weeks. That would be enough torture.  
  
But he still didn't like the way the two were acting together.  
  
Paul needlessly assisted Satine onto a stool at the bar... in her heels, it was barely a stretch for her, and quickly took the seat next to her, leaving Christian next to Paul, the ladies' man of the entire Eastern sea border.  
  
When Paul lit her cigarette for her, Christian decided that he'd had enough. He tapped his friend on the shoulder. The man was still indulged in getting an ashtray for Satine and ignored Christian. He tapped him again, more insistently, this time leaning over and adding, "Look over there... isn't that Mary-Beth Sandritz?"  
  
Abruptly, Paul dropped the ashtray, consequently spilling old ashes across the counter. "What?" he exclaimed, nearly falling off of his stool in surprise. He glanced around wildly as Christian fought to maintain his composure. Mary-Beth had been a one-night tryst gone horribly wrong. It had turned out that the seemingly normal, flirty girl was actually a clingy horror of a woman who had followed Paul around for days, begging him to marry her and proclaiming that he was the love of her life to all who would listen.  
  
Paul now refused to even talk to a girl once he found out that her name was Mary. Girls named Beth made him pale.  
  
"I thought I saw her over there." He pointed vaguely to the most crowded section of the club in hopes that the Spanish playboy would become immensely paranoid and take his leave of the little party.  
  
He did.  
  
With an elaborate bow and a kiss on the cheek to Satine and a smile to Christian that was both apologetic and grateful, Paul jammed his had on his head and hurried out of the building, calling back that he would catch a cab back home.  
  
Satine regarded him quizzically. "Who's Mary-Beth?"  
  
He shrugged. "It's a long story."  
  
"I see." She sipped her drink and glanced around. "So, what exactly are we doing here?"  
  
"Seeing how well you fare out in the world."  
  
Another drink, this one longer than the last. "Like a dog on a leash, whose master is seeing how well he behaves before deciding to lengthen the chain."  
  
A frown crossed his face. "Well... I suppose..."  
  
She turned and pressed a manicured finger to his lips, silencing him. "Shh. You don't always have to talk you know."  
  
"I kn-"  
  
The finger pressed down more firmly, as if to restate her previous sentence, before being removed and returning to cup the drink in her hand.  
  
For a few minutes, they sat in silence, Satine nursing along her drink and Christian contemplating how many drinks it would take for him to ask...  
  
"May I have this dance?"  
  
Both turned as one to observe the speaker, and Satine nearly fell to the floor in surprise. Christian, however, smiled brightly and stood, offering his hand in greeting to the young man who had approached Satine. "Frederick! Frederick Duke!"  
  
The blonde smiled and shook the professor's hand enthusiastically. "Christian Higgins! How many times have I asked you to call me Freddy?"  
  
END CHAPTER NINE 


End file.
